Danger's Mistress
by Jessica Simpson-Bourget
Summary: Post-non-wedding to Frasier, Diane's already well on her way to legendary status in Italy when something happens to turn la dolce vita into something terribly bitter.


Stone drunk and half-dressed in her hotel room after bidding young Giovanni a fond buonanotte, Diane got the call.

Why would this room not stay still for even a second? she wondered. Must be an Italian thing. Her head had started to ache and she only answered the phone to make it stop its incessant ringing.

All she wanted was to feel nothing. Her life was a shambles and Sam hadn't come for her. What could she possibly feel now that was good?

"Hullo…" she slurred into the receiver.

"Diane? Diane, are you alright?" Frasier. Damn it.

"Yes, Frasier," I just don't want to hear from you.

"Diane, I've had some bad news from Boston… I spoke to Bennett Ludlow this morning…"

Diane's heart sank. Sam. Was it Sam? Oh God…

"What is it, Frasier? Tell me."

Her head was so foggy and she strained to focus, her mind somehow unable to keep up with itself.

"Diane, it's Coach."

She began to tremble. Panic overcame her and her heart raced, pumping the alcohol through her system with renewed vigor. She was losing clarity and control, which only increased her distress.

"What? What about Coach?!" she cried, unable to conceal her anxiety, "What, Frasier?! Tell me!"

"Diane, Coach has passed away."

Silence. The words seem to come to her from very far away, and she had to listen for a long while before she really heard them. Her mind eventually caught up with her ears.

"Oh God no," she whispered, her fears confirmed. Her chest tightened and she felt awash with shame at her inebriated condition while hearing such sacred news.

"Diane? Are you there? Diane!?"

"Yes… yes, Frasier. I heard you."

She was unwilling to give him any more of her tears. She just wanted to get off the phone as quickly as possible, so in her best sober voice, she ended the conversation.

"Thank you, Frasier. I'll be alright. Thank you. Good night."

And she hung up without waiting for another word from him.

"Coach. Oh God, Coach…"

The tears came like a dam bursting, and drunk as she was, she immediately escalated into a crying jag as the room spun mercilessly around her. Her body racked with sobs, she fell off the bed, wrenching her wrist. One more reason to cry, but the physical pain was nothing next to the great sucking wound she felt in her chest.

Her heart bled for the loss of her dearest friend and the time she could never make up for with him. For not being there in his final hours. That Frasier Crane of all people, a virtual stranger to Coach, had to tell her about his death. If it had to be done, it should've been Sam. Her heart ached for his arms around her right now. For so many things.

Thoughts of Elizabeth came, and she realized with some degree of horror that she hadn't been there for the passing of either of her beloveds, both of whom had been steadfastly in her corner from the moment they met. Once more, the awful news had come via telephone from beyond her reach. This time, Sam wouldn't be there to soften the blow. Poor Sam… what he must be going through… She couldn't consider calling him. Not like this. Not after everything. He didn't come for her. He must hate her, and she didn't blame him one bit.

She had no one now. Her mother wouldn't even take a telephone call, and how could she begin tell Heather about her latest fall from grace? She was ashamed. Too ashamed to reach out to anyone. She'd deceived and destroyed Frasier by denying Sam, breaking Sam's heart in the process, and had once again let those she loved down by checking out in a time of crisis. She had no future life or career prospects, and no idea how she'd afford to live another week in a foreign country with only her airline ticket, a scant few pieces of jewelry and a couple hundred dollars in savings to her name. Thirty-two years old, and this was what she had to show for it. The degree of failure on every level was too much to consider.

Her head was pounding and her breathing increasingly labored. Her stomach seemed to be rapidly moving toward her throat. This tear she'd been on for the past week had finally caught up with her. Her carelessness and indiscretions in Italian bars and hotel rooms in the wake of her non-wedding had lost their power to amuse and distract. La dolce vita had taken a sharp left turn into cold, painful darkness and her mind and body were paying the price.

Unable to stand, she half-crawled to the bathroom and vomited what little she'd eaten that day. The room, which spun as though caught up in a cataclysmic tornado, suddenly began to crash in on her until all was blackness. She passed out on the cold tile floor, her only friend, and didn't awaken until the frightened housekeeper nudged her with a tentative foot the next afternoon.

That evening she was on a rickety old commuter plane to Barcelona, dark sunglasses covering bloodshot eyes, nursing a bandaged wrist, and a pint of vodka in her purse. The pilot, a sun-weathered, bearded rake with the devil in his ivory white smile, gave her a conspiratorial wink when he spotted her taking a furtive pull from the bottle as he headed for the cockpit. Oh, hell.

She leaned her head against the window in resignation. Everyone might as well know the mess she was. There was no hiding it now. There was no one left to disappoint anyway. Thus emboldened, she took another swig. To hell with everything and everyone. Someday she might feel better, but for the foreseeable future, she was going to feel bad.

* * *

_I may pick this up again sometime if the spirit moves, but for now I'll call it a one shot, which is what I intended when I started it. Thanks for reading!_


End file.
